


Fallen Leaves & Mysteries

by paperstorms



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Bad Parenting, Boys Kissing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game(s), Pre-Series, cuteness, drunk! Chris, happiness, non-fuckboy mike, sober! Mike, strong and blonde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4963693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorms/pseuds/paperstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fight with his father, Mike turns down a party invitation that drives a rift between him and Emily. His boring night gets turned around when Chris shows up on his doorstep, kicking off a series of events that might just turn his life upside down.</p><p>Set to an indie soundtrack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Leaves & Mysteries

**Author's Note:**

> _This chapter's soundtrack: Highway Patrol Stun Gun - Youth Lagoon_

There’s a briskness in the September air and the long summer nights are getting slowly shorter as the world begins to tip-toe into fall; the sprawling California beaches crackle at night with the last bonfires of summer, the kids drawing out their vacations as long as they can before the new school semester begins. The shops are starting to fill up with halloween decorations and autumnal produce paints the markets to look like the early evening sky. For Mike, every sunset has started to feel like the end of an era. He knows he’ll never be this young again, and it makes him kind of sad.

Tonight he’s in, and everyone else is out. He isn’t sure he can face another house party, even though each one threatens to be the last of the season. Instead he’s in the kitchen, scrubbing dirty dishes.

There’s a pile of dirty plates and tumblers sticky with whiskey residue, because his father hasn’t tidied. It’s expected. Sleeves of his hoodie rolled up, elbow deep in soap suds, Mike taps his foot along to the stereo. An old Youth Lagoon cd is playing, volume low enough so as not to disturb his old man sleeping on the couch in the next room.

A few hours earlier, they’d been arguing, but now he’s sleeping in a drunken stupor. It’s better for both of them that way.

Humming along softly, Mike wonders whether the party he’s missing is any good. It’s not one of theirs, because he wouldn’t miss one of their own parties for the world, whatever mood he was in. The host is a local boy in Matt and Ashley’s year at school, Tristan Kaczynski. Tristan's parents have a beach house on the waterfront, and everyone’s been looking forward to it for weeks. Emily’s been talking non-stop about the dress she reserved for the event at Weathervane on Montana Avenue, and Jess and Hannah have been hooked on her every word, begging her to go on. It’s fine; Mike loves to see her happy, except that he’d been forced to sit and wait whilst she’d chosen the damn thing, and that had taken hours. He wasn’t sure hot pink was even her colour.

She was pissed at him for not coming, he knew that for sure. He’d dropped the bomb a couple of hours before the party kicked off, and after her hissy fit, Mike was pretty confident they were on another ‘break’. 

A groan from the lounge brings him out of his thoughts. Mike chances a glance through the doorway, but the old man is only shifting in his sleep. Groggily, he scratches at his belly and his head flops to the side. Mike slowly exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, and returns to the task at hand. Scrub, rinse, stack. He doesn’t know how two men could use so many plates, but they do.

His phone goes. It almost vibrates off the counter, Emily’s photo flashing demandingly on the screen. He keeps scrubbing. If she wants to apologise for her attitude, he’s going to make her wait to do it. Tonight he just wants to be his own man.

As it rings off, the cd starts to skip in the stereo. With a frown, Mike dries his hands on a tea towel and smacks the machine in a frustrated attempt at fixing it. It starts to skip worse. The phone rings again. Mike squeezes his eyes shut, face twisted in a tired grimace, and he turns both of them off, because he’d rather clean in silence than put any effort into fixing a piece of technology they should have thrown out half a decade ago, or his relationship, for that matter.

 

Just as he’s about to dunk his hands back into the lukewarm suds, he’s interrupted again. This time, it’s the front door. He finds his shoulders tensing up as his eyes dart to the sleeping lump on the couch. No movement. Mike eyes him cautiously as he leaves the room to get the door.

 

“Chris?”

 

His friend is stood on the stoop, leaning heavily on the porch frame, and Mike can tell he’s a little drunk from the red in his cheeks. Chris gives him a lop-sided grin, one hand coming up in greeting.

 

“Hey, Mikey. Really needed to see you.”

 

Mike is a little surprised, but he’s not going to argue. Chris is his oldest friend; they’ve been an indestructible duo since kindergarten, when Mike still lived with his grandfather in Chris’ neighbourhood. They’d grown apart in recent years, but never so far that they couldn’t lean on each other. Chris knows Mike hates having people over at his place, but it’s safe to assume alcohol is clouding his memory a little. Mike would never turn him away.

 

“Sure, just… voice down.”

 

“I know, _I know_. Whoa, what happened to your face?” Chris slurs slightly, stepping inside. He wipes his feet on the mat, managing to kick his shoes into a messy pile under the dresser. Mike’s hand comes to his jaw, brushing the tender patch. It must have bruised, he thinks. No big deal - it was an accident.

 

They’re both as angry as each other when it comes down to it, but his old man is a loose cannon, and sometimes things get thrown. Tonight it was an ashtray, but it’s usually fists. He’s used to ducking fists whilst he tries to talk the man down. “Arguing with the General. You know how it is.”

 

Chris’ eyes meet his, wide with sympathy, but glossy with intoxication; Mike wants to laugh, because his pupils are so big. “Had a few too many, Christoph?”

 

A feeble nod confirms his suspicions, and Mike locks the door on the chain before he leads Chris up the stairs, because he’s seen his friends act in crazy unpredictable ways when they’ve been drinking. Whatever is on Chris’ mind, Mike doesn’t want him wandering off again into the night.

In the safety of his bedroom, Mike lets Chris crash onto his bed, and peels off his own hoodie before he joins him. Chris’ legs dangle off the edge of the mattress, both his hands on his face.

“So,” Mike nudges him, mainly to make sure he hasn’t passed out already. “Are you going to talk to me, or are you just going to sleep right there?”

A big dumb smile crosses Chris’ face as he looks up at Mike, and for a while he just stares at him. Mike sweats a little under his gaze, pulling a face that makes Chris laugh. “Sorry,” Chris mutters, “I was just thinking how different you look when your hair’s not all sculpted with gel.”

With a curt laugh, Mike runs his fingers through his fluffy hair and shrugs. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing anyone today.”

“I like it, _a lot_ ,” Chris slurs, arms dropping to his sides. He’s a sight to behold, lying there in all his layers, eyes wandering thoughtfully around the room. “Your room is different too. I remember when you had all those mountain climbing posters with the guys hanging off the rocks.. do you remember that? Much better then. Better than pictures of _girls_.”

 

Mike starts to wonder what Chris has come here to tell him. But he’s not going to interrupt. He likes how honest his friend gets when he’s been drinking.

 

Looking around his room, he supposes it has changed a lot. Piece by piece, poster by poster, he’s grown up. One wall of the small room has photographs of his friends, haphazardly tacked up all over the place. Another, posters torn out of Maxim and Details magazines, all his favourite actresses and models in their underwear. In his defence, they never seem to do a photoshoot fully clothed. He’s still got all the same furniture crammed in that he always had, now a bit more worn, a bit more outdated. His desk is chipped and scarred from where he’s worried at the untreated pine over the years with pencils and penknives. There’s a heart carved in one corner, with his and Emily’s initials inside. She always loves it when he does that.

 

The bed is crammed up against it, the slanted ceiling above it making it hard to sit up in the space. His wardrobe is overflowing now, but he tries his best to keep the small space tidy nowadays - when he was younger, the mess filled up every inch of the wooden floor. Last time Chris had been over, they’d both been small enough to sit cross-legged in the space between the bed and the door.

 

“Don’t wanna know what you do with those pictures,” Chris continues, pointing up at a particularly revealing cut-out of a Victoria’s Secret angel. “Let’s be honest, I’m a teenage boy and you’re a teenage boy and I _know_ , Michael Munroe. I know what you do. What we both do. Boys are disgusting.”

 

“You are very, very drunk, my friend,” Mike chuckles softly. He figures he’s not going to get anything worthwhile out of Chris in this state. “Do you want to sleep? Because I think it might be a good idea.”

 

Chris shrugs, and starts trying to shuffle up the bed towards Mike’s heap of pillows. “You should have been at the party, bro. You… you just should have been there.”

 

Mike stares out of the window into the dark. After the night he’s had, he probably wouldn’t have been much fun anyway. “Yeah? What did I miss?”

 

When Chris doesn’t respond, Mike glances over to check he’s awake. He is. He’s staring back at Mike with an apologetic pout on his face, brow furrowed in frustration. “Just… Emily and Tristan. I don’t know if I should be telling you.”

 

“…Kaczynski?”

 

“I don’t know what happened. Something about dancing, body shots, yadda.. yadda.”

 

Scowling, Mike rubs his hands over his face. Not this again. It’s not the first time she’s done this, and Mike always tells her the same thing. If she wants to make him feel bad, or jealous, it’d be much more effective if he was there. Now he’s got to put up with the rumours at school, and the damn drama that follows. “For fucks sake."

 

“Sorry man. I- I just thought, somebody better tell you,” Chris’ eyes are closing as he speaks, and he smacks his lips gently, settling comfortably into Mike’s pillows. He’s got a lazy smile on his face that serves to dissipate Mike’s growing anger a little. Nudging him with an elbow until he shifts over, Mike scoots further onto the bed. Everything else can wait until morning.

 

“I know. Just forget it, bro. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it from you.”

 

It’s likely Chris won’t even remember the conversation anyway. Mike eyes his drowsy friend warily. “You can’t sleep in all that.”

 

He gets nothing but a mumble in response. Sighing heavily, he props himself up on one elbow and examines Chris’ layers. He can see a t-shirt, shirt, and sweater under Chris’ hoodie, and it’s only the first week of September. He’s pretty confident there’s something wrong with him.

 

Besides, it’s hot in his room.

 

Leaning over him, Mike unzips the hoodie. “Come on, bud. Work with me here.”

 

Chris mumbles again, shifting underneath Mike as he tries to get his arms free from the jacket. “Stuck."

Laughing as he struggles, Mike manages to tug the first layer off. He looks down at Chris, who yawns and blinks sleepily back at him. The sweater is going to be harder. Grabbing the hem, he wriggles it up Chris’ body, taking the shirt with it. It works fine, until he’s got Chris’ arms above his head, both garments caught around his elbows.

“God dammit,” Mike curses, trying to force the sleeves further. Chris snickers underneath him.

“You did this to _yourself_ ,” Chris declares, staring Mike right in the face with accusing eyes. “I didn’t _ask_ to be undressed. You just can’t help yourself. I'm too sexy.”

“Well, whilst that may or may not be true” Mike snickers though gritted teeth, fighting the fabric until it’s around Chris’ wrists. Chris lays there with his hands above his head, not making any attempt at helping at all. “If you weren’t such an onion with all this crap, we’d both be having a better time right now.”

“Onion?”

His hands slip free at last.

“Too many layers,” Mike says, hurling the offending garments across the room. By now, he’s all but completely on top of Chris, a knee between his thighs, hands on either side of his head. He gives Chris an awkward smile, and they hang there, staring at each with no idea what to say.

Out of nowhere, a hand sinks into the short hairs on the back of his neck, yanking him closer.

Before Mike can recognise what is going on, their lips are clashing against each other. Chris is kissing him. On the _mouth_. It’s sloppy, his friend’s lips moving against his, hungry but uncoordinated. He jerks back slightly, Chris’ hand resisting his attempt to pull away.

 

“What-“

 

Chris strains his neck to capture him again. Mike’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. The kiss is warm, and Chris’ mouth tastes like vanilla cola. He relaxes, his body pressing down on top of Chris as their tongues dance between their parted lips. Mike can feel the stubble on Chris’ chin brush against his own, his ears filled with soft noises of satisfaction from the boy below him. It's so different to kissing Emily, so easy, and comfortable.

 

“You deserve better than her,” Chris mumbles as he finally releases Mike, hand slipping from Mike's hair and coming to his own face. He pushes his glasses off the top of his head, rubbing his eyes. His cheeks are glowing and the contented, lazy smile on his face makes Mike turn a little red.

 

Maybe it’s true; maybe he does deserve better than Emily. They’ve been together so long, Mike doesn’t really know what to think anymore, only that it’s routine, and that he hates change. They hurt each other, and they fight, and they kiss and make up. When it’s good, it’s really good. But when it’s bad, it’s ugly. Everyone can see it. The problem is, he doesn’t like to be anyone’s man. Mike isn’t property, and sometimes with Emily he feels like a wild animal she’s trying to call her pet. His lips tingle from the bruising kiss, and when he looks down, Chris is already starting to fall asleep beneath him. He doesn’t know what to make of tonight, but he supposes he can put it down a drunken fumble.

 

Shuffling gently off the bed, he hovers in the middle of the room, unsure what to do now. He’s tired, but he’s got to finish tidying the kitchen. With a nervous lump in his throat, Mike slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

 

When he’s done downstairs, Mike drapes a blanket over his father, still snoring on the couch. They’ll have to be careful in the morning, because he’ll be in a foul mood when he wakes up. He heads back up the stairs, back to his tiny bedroom, and sleeping friend. Chris has wriggled out of his jeans, and they hang dejectedly off the end of the bed. He’s laid out flat in his t-shirt, boxers and one sock, glasses askew on the pillow above his head.

 

They’ve slept in the same bed plenty of times when they were younger, so Mike forces himself not to feel awkward. He strips down to his boxers too, and rescues Chris’ glasses, folding them up and putting thaem on the desk. Pulls the covers down, and back up over both of them when he’s crawled in beside his friend. Chris rolls over immediately, snuggling against his chest for warmth, and his skin is icy to touch, so Mike throws an arm over him without hesitation. Flicking off the light, he lays there idly in the blackness of his room, Chris’ shallow breaths tickling at his neck, and wonders what comes tomorrow. 

 

Mike knows Chris probably won’t remember any of this in the morning, because he’s just that sort of drunk. 

 

Although, he finds himself sort of hoping that he does.


End file.
